


Caution to the Wind

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Scenes from a War-Forged Courtship [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aeron Tabris, Alistair/Aeron, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3500903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which waiting for the perfect time is traded for making one in the middle of an imperfect situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caution to the Wind

Alistair approaches her at camp while she sits by the fire cleaning her blade. He asks if he might speak with her somewhere a little further from the earshot of the others, and he does it quietly, as if he is nervous of the others even hearing that much from him. It gives Aeron pause, puts concern on her face.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

“No, no, no! Nothing’s wrong! It’s…just a matter of privacy, is all.” Alistair smiles at her, but the nervousness hovering around him makes it seem off. “Can we?”

If it will put him at ease…

“Let’s go for a walk.”

They wander off side by side, falling into step with each other. Aeron feels him glance at her when she weaves her slender fingers through his, the gesture almost automatic by now, but he does not pull away. She is almost certain that she has the texture of his palm memorized—warm, roughened by his training. There’s something comforting in being able to return to that. It’s grounding, in its own way; a piece of reality during the parts that seem most unreal.

"All right,” Alistair says when they are well enough away, “I guess I really don't know how to ask you this, but if I don’t, the regret might kill me before the darkspawn or Loghain do."

Aeron tilts her head. “What’re you talking about?”

The Warden stops walking and faces her. The nervousness on Alistair’s face is much more obvious now. He shifts on his feet.

"Look, Aeron, every time I'm around you, I feel as if my head's about to explode. My heart races, I get butterflies in my stomach, I can't think straight—”

“Dangerous symptoms to have, especially in the heat of battle,” Aeron tells him with a small grin.

"Ah, true, but not the point right now. I… Here is the honest truth. Being around you makes me _crazy_. At the same time…I can't imagine being without you. Not ever.” Face cradled in his hand, Alistair leans down and kisses her gently. “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

And as soon as the words leave her mouth, she knows it to be true. The harmless night they spent together snuggled in her tent was the first time it seemed possible that her fondness for him could be something more, but she knows it for certain now, in this quiet moment. Aeron loves this eager, sweet-smiling boy from the Chantry; this swordsman with the earnest heart; her fellow Warden. It would be a scandal in the alienage, her father would perhaps disown her, but she loves Alistair. She knows it more with each kiss they trade, each smile, each gentle touch…

“Maybe that will make this next part easier.” Thumb brushing gently across her cheek, Alistair draws in a little breath. Their gazes connect. “I want to spend the night with you. Here, in the camp.”

“Spend the night,” Aeron echoes. “You mean to say—?”

“I do. I mean to say…” He smiles a little. “Maybe this is too fast, I don't know, but...I know what I feel.”

“But are you sure? I mean, the last time we talked about this…” Before he can speak, she adds, “I just want to make sure that it really is what you want, that it’s because you genuinely want to and not—not just because you want to prove that you love me or… You know? You don’t have to prove that.”

“I know. Believe me, I do, and I can’t be more grateful that you’ve been patient with me. A-and it’s true, Aeron, I did want to wait for the perfect time, the perfect place but…when has any of this been perfect? If not for the Blight, we might have never even met. We sort of stumbled into each other, and despite this being the least perfect time, I still found myself falling for you.”

“Even—I mean, even if I’m—?”

 _Even if I’m an Elf_ , she wants to say, but she doesn’t. Aeron doesn’t have to. He smiles at her kindly.

“It’s just one more reason that I do. And I've…never done this before. You know that. I want it to be with you,” Alistair tells her, “while we have the chance. In case…”

He swallows, looks down at the ground. Neither of them wants to think about it, let alone acknowledge that the possibility is there, but it persists at the backs of their minds.

"I'd like to be able to say I threw caution to the wind at least once,” Alistair says, returning his gaze to hers. “I want this. I want you, Aeron, and I—and I trust you.”

Something about the thought puts a delicious buzz in her brain. Trusted. Wanted. Loved, even, despite the list of reasons it shouldn’t be possible. Aeron throws her arms around Alistair’s neck and kisses him. It lingers, builds into something passionate in the blissful absence of interrupting onlookers—into a kiss that most accurately conveys the affection that has grown in her for him. It leaves them breathless and warm in the half-dark. In a whisper, Alistair invokes the name of his precious Maker; the ghost of a smile plays on his lips.

“Is—is that yes?”

“A resounding yes,” she answers.

Excitement quickens the pace of their steps on the way back to camp. At the entrance to her tent, Aeron asks him again if he’s sure. Alistair just nods, smile returning. She leads him inside, pulls him to her before the flap falls closed behind him and feels his arms wrap around her; his hands splayed wide, as if trying to feel as much of her as he can. Aeron shuts her eyes and listens to his heart. This feels right. It feels safe.

“You’ll have to—I mean, there weren’t exactly lessons in…” Alistair’s chest vibrates with the sound of his voice. The nervousness is back in his face when she looks up at him. “Every time I think about it, I just feel foolish. All hands…”

Aeron grins at him. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing, to be all hands.”

“You know what I mean,” he says. He takes her hands in his, the contrast of them obvious but unspoken, and brings them to his lips. “Teach me how to touch you.”

And it feels like time goes slow, dreamlike. There is an unspoken back-and-forth with the removal of clothes. There is excitement and nervousness, but there is also laughter to dispel it. (He fumbles through trying to equate her skin with the color of bronze before, red-faced and sheepish, agreeing that he fares better when comparing her to roses.) Alistair touches her like he is trying to commit her to memory, and where his hands go, his lips follow with feather-light kisses. She is amused by the wonder in his approach; like she’s something precious, like touching her is some kind of unexpected privilege. (And it is, isn’t it? Even if the value of her worth has always seemed in question…) There is desire in the young man’s eyes, too—when Aeron palms him through the fabric of his trousers, drawing out a few little moans, it is that much more apparent—but it is not the sole driving force at play here.

There is desire because there is love.

There is love because the circumstances have put them together. There is love because she is charmed by his eagerness, because he is impressed with her strength; because she is beautiful enough to make him grateful for his vision and his laugh makes her heart flutter; because…

Because of a hundred reasons and no reason at all.

“You are just so… My, you are beautiful.” Alistair laughs, eyes shining with want and his hands lingering at her hips. “You know that, don’t you?”

“It’s nice to hear out loud once in a while,” Aeron answers, straddling across his lap and sliding her arms around his neck. “You aren’t such a bad sight yourself, you know.”

“No, but _you_ …you are _beautiful_. Every bit of you is just… You’re soft.” He nuzzles the crook of her neck, presses kisses along her collarbones and up her throat. His hands run over the surface of her thighs. “You’re so soft…warm… How am I so lucky? And I just—”

“Alistair—”

“Hm?”

 _“Alistair—”_ Aeron moans.

“What? Am I—” Concern briefly breaks through the desire on his face. “I’m not… It’s not h-hurting, is it—?”

“Alistair,” she says again, a soft moan slipping past her lips. “Alistair, my sweet, darling Chantry boy…when did they teach you to do _that_ with your hands?”

Concern briefly turns to confusion; quickly turns to mischief. He smiles into a kiss as his fingertips continue to trace gentle circles between her thighs. Something clever about self-education leaves his mouth, but she is too busy thinking about the flush of heat spreading through her. Delicious, surely, and made better by how he looks so very proud of himself.

“You like seeing me like this? Half—” Aeron gasps a little, moans as a particularly strong rush of pleasure skips through her. “You do, don’t you?”

“It’s a nice change, yes.” Alistair nods.

“And what about you?” she asks.

“What about—?” But then his mouth falls open and his fingers stutter; no doubt, a reaction to where her hand has wandered. “O- _oh_. Well, aha, yes, of—of course, but I—”

“Hm?”

“I wanted to see…” There is a small whine in his voice as his fingers find the right pace again. “I wanted you to be first. So I could know if—what—you know… If it was right—”

And the thought alone sends another rush of heat that reaches to the very tips of her ears. Aeron laughs a little. She savors the warmth of Alistair’s mouth against hers and leaves him be in favor of alighting her hand on his.

“Wait,” she says, readjusting his fingers slightly lower. “Here. No, wait—”

It’s only when his eyes go wide that the Elf realizes how brazen it must look, actively sticking his fingers in her mouth. And judging from what is now beginning to brush near her inner thigh—

“Here.” She positions his fingers against herself again, having to resist taking the next step for him. “Just—”

“You’re sure?” Nervousness creeps into his face. “It won’t hurt—?”

“Gently, Alistair. Not all at once—” Shivers go up her spine as his fingers slip inside her. Aeron leans her forehead against his, a reassuring smile pulling across her lips. “L-like that, exactly. Gentle. At, ah, at first, anyway. And if you—you curl them—”

“What, like this—?” His face lights up at the reaction it gets out of her. “Oh, I see.”

“Mm—mm-hm—”

“And if I added this?” he asks, his thumb circling where his fingers were before. “What then?”

“The command,” Aeron breathes, _“not to stop.”_

He looks so very _proud_ of himself as he promises not to, as he kisses her and figures out the proper pacing; in a more composed state, she might find it adorable. Precious. Her darling Chantry boy, eager and pleased to please; still managing to blush pink from the moaning and words leaving her as she veers closer to just falling over the proverbial edge.

And it isn’t solely from the stimulation between her thighs, is it? Alistair is still committing her to his memory. His free hand tucks her hair behind her ear; follows its path down the front of her shoulder, the slope of her breast. His fingers trace curling designs down her ribcage and along the side of her thigh. All the while, his gaze is fixed on her face. Even with her eyes shut, Aeron can feel Alistair watching her—studying her, it might make more sense to stay?

If she were more composed—

“Alistair—”

Aeron’s fingers go tight in his hair. There is what feels like a coiled spring growing tight in her body. Her hips rock against his hand of their own accord—quicker, needier—and he…

Alistair looks much too proud of himself—much, much too proud.

“Don’t—slow—” She whimpers against his mouth. “Not now. Not so close—so close—”

“So close?”

“To being spe—to—” A few choice words escape her. “You’d make me beg—?”

But he begins to match the pace of her hips instead. There are bursts of pleasure as he curls his fingers inward once, twice… The coil grows tighter still, tighter still, tighter still—and it is almost— _almost_ —unbearable—

And then it isn’t.

And then it is only pleasure on top of pleasure on top of…

And it has never been quite like this, like being consumed by flame and joy all at once. It has been good, sure, and it has been worth mention before, but it has never been quite like _this_ —quite so good or—or—or _pure_ , perhaps, or powerful or sudden. No, it has never been quite so sudden, so direct. Never quite like this. And something in her very dimly wonders if it is because she is the first, if because he is not yet diluted by experience, or if it is because of love.

“Alistair…”

For a moment, it seems like the only word she knows. Eyes closed, Aeron cradles his face between her hands and murmurs it again. The press of his forehead against hers is soothing. She whimpers only a little when he withdraws but assures him it isn’t from pain. (Ever so conscientious, this one. So very precious, indeed.) His free hand comes up and curls around hers, their fingers weaving together almost as soon as Aeron feels his touch. Alistair is murmuring something, maybe some little prayer of thanks to his Maker, and it makes her smile a little.

“This was all your doing, you know.”

“And I am glad for it, trust me.” He nuzzles her cheek, presses a kiss to it. “Better than what I pictured.”

“Did you picture it often?” Aeron meets his gaze with his. “My dear Alistair, you’re blushing.”

“It’s—ah—” He clears his throat. “—a bit warm in here, is all.”

“Is it?”

“A little bit.”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” she tells him, “given the circumstances.”

“I’m—” And now, _his_ eyes flutter closed. The flush of his cheeks intensifies. A little bit of laughter escapes. “My turn, then, is it?”

“Only if you still want to. I should have asked first.”

“And my answer would have been the same, except… You’re not spent? Isn’t some time needed between…?”

And Aeron does her best not to laugh, because though Alistair is quick to learning, there is still so much he does not yet know—though, to be fair, there are plenty of worldly folks who know little of the differences between the stamina of men and women or of various positions beyond the standards. But perhaps best not to overwhelm him so soon. Best to go at his desired pace. Let him choose the next course of action.

Alistair chooses to stay as they already are, not wanting to give up the warmth of her skin against his. Aeron does make one small adjustment, uncurling her legs to wrap them around his waist instead. It makes guiding him into her a bit easier, though the difference in thickness from his fingers is…obvious, but not uncomfortable. It feels right.

“Maker’s breath—” Alistair’s eyelids flutter.

“Take the time you need.”

He looks up at her. “Does it—always feel like this? So warm? So, ah…so—”

“Snug? I’m not exactly equipped to know.”

“No, I suppose not.”

They trade smiles. He looks a little more at ease. Alistair’s arms wrap around her back. He gives a little nod, whimpers a bit when she first starts to rock her hips. His fingertips press into her skin. A low, breathy laugh escapes him, followed by something Aeron can barely make out with the way he has hidden his face against her shoulder. She runs her fingers through his hair and keeps the pace slow.

“Too much?” she asks.

He shakes his head. A soft moan rises from the back of his throat. He tries to meet the movement of her hips with his own, but the synchronicity proves initially elusive. Too late one way, too soon another… They stop. Alistair makes a frustrated sound. Determination is set into his features as their gazes meet.

“Don’t overthink it,” Aeron tells him. “These things, they are as much instinct as technique.”

“Instinct—”

She kisses him, leans the weight of her body into his as she does so; bears down her hips as his shift upward. Alistair moans gently into her mouth as they rock back into place.

“Instinct,” he says afterward, nodding, getting it; smiling anew as his hands slide down to her hips.

The rhythm is easier to find. The back and forth of the act is smoother. The sounds come from both of them, mixing in the air. It is good, her skin warms and her pulse races with the same eagerness as when he was solely touching her, but it is being able to watch Alistair experience this that makes these moments preferable to what preceded. He alternates from clinging to her like he is afraid she might disappear to running his hands over her less as if committing her to memory and more as though he wants to reassure himself that she is real—that _this_ is real, that _this_ is really happening.

Alistair’s eyes shine as much with love as they do with the lust of the moment. From his mouth, her name is like a murmured prayer.

Aeron kisses him, runs her hands down his neck to his chest; swears to herself that she can feel his heart hammering away inside, that it is keeping equal pace with hers.

“This is—” He sighs deeply. “I never th-thought… Like this—”

Her hands slide back upward, fingers lacing together at the nape of his neck. “Hm?”

“It’s better,” he says. “It’s—this—b-being with you—like this—”

“Breathe, my love. Make sure you breathe.”

“I love you,” he tells her, the words a rush. “I— _love_ you and I—hah—I… _oh—_ ”

“Alistair?”

“It feels…right. Warm. This feels—”

He looks up at her, eyes half-lidded; flashes an uneven grin. The rhythm of their hips stutters, regains itself; quickens. Alistair brushes her hair back from her face, lets his hands wander down to her brown shoulders; pulls her close to him so that he might rebrand her with more feverish kisses. He is so pure with his emotions now. Vulnerable. He does not restrain the sounds that escape him, does not try to quell the little shivers that run through his skin. Aeron doubts he even knows how.

She hopes he never learns.

“I—I think I’m…close—?” Alistair gasps. “I—”

“Look at me.” Their eyes meet; his eyes shining and dark. “What’re you feeling?”

“It’s—it’s all…h-hot. Tense, like—” The uneven grin reappears, automatic, gives way to the expression of someone at the very edge of being swept away. The rhythm stutters again, changes to something needier—at least from his side. He wraps an arm around her waist. “Feels like falling—”

“So fall.” Aeron smiles at him, cradling his face. “Fall if you want to. I’ve—I’ve got you, Alistair. I’ve got you—”

“I—”

But whatever he was going to say is gone, forced away. Alistair still moves but it is automatic, unconscious. It grows uneven and slows as he tightens his hold around her. His shining eyes are wide and his mouth falling open enough to gasp, to offer fragments of moans. The peak of the moment passes as they grow still, but there is an unfocused look in his eyes. He responds to his name with a soft sound and a small nod. He leans into her touch when she strokes one fevered cheek, a serene expression on his face.

“You precious thing, you.” Aeron chuckles as he ducks his head under her chin. “You precious, precious thing.”

He responds with another soft sound, though she doubts he has any idea of her words. Alistair is here but he is not here. He is adrift still. Aeron holds him to her, stroking his hair, his shoulders; an anchor until he descends back to himself.

Maybe there might be some worth in at least lighting a candle at the next Chantry, she figures as she listens to his breath even out. Or perhaps she could make a small donation. They _are_ always fond of those…

“That was—”

“Alistair?”

“Maker, that was…” He laughs a little, sounding tired. “Unexpected. Not like what they said at all.”

“It never is,” Aeron answers.

“But it was—” Alistair pulls away enough to look at her. “It wasn’t bad! It was g—very, very—I mean, spectacular—! It was—”

And she can’t help laughing a little; can’t help stealing a kiss from lips still trying to assure her that he enjoyed himself, that this was indeed what he wanted, until he goes quiet and returns the gesture.

“It was, though, wasn’t it? Good, I mean.”

She nods. “It was.”

“Even if—I mean, did—?”

She shakes her head before he can finish the question. “But that’s normal.”

“You’re sure? You’re not just trying to put one on? Because we could—I—well, I-I might need a moment, but—” Another kiss. He relents, melts against her. “Maybe…maybe less than a moment, if you insist on doing that every time I talk.”

Aeron smiles at him, intending it as a question when she says, “Stay the night.”

“Tonight?”

“Every night, if you want.”

Alistair hums a little, thumb absently rubbing a spot on her waist. “Tempting. But you aren’t worried about the risks?”

“Risks?”

“Well, if the sisters were right, I might get hit by lightning for this—though, I suppose that would have been more effective beforehand…” He grins. “And the others, they’ll talk, you know.”

“Oh, will they?”

“They are given to gossip now and then. And it’s not like we were very—”

“Discreet?”

“ _Quiet_ , I was going to say, but that works as well.”

Aeron sighs, shaking her head. “Oh, hell. I suppose I’ll just feed them to darkspawn at the first joke.”

Alistair laughs then, deep and genuine. In the quiet that follows, he nods, agreeing to stay. They kiss. They separate with the reluctance natural to new lovers. Aeron steals up his shirt, pleased that it does fall to just above her knees as she surmised it would. She pulls an extra pair of underwear from one pocket of her knapsack and, from a small satchel in another pocket, palms a glass vial containing a pale green liquid. She gets as far as the flap of the tent before he questions where she might be off to.

“Well, now that I’ve finally bedded a virgin, it’s time for me to sit beneath the moonlight and complete the ancient Elven ritual that will completely bind you into my service, body and soul,” Aeron answers casually. “And then, maybe after that, I’ll try to haggle with Sten for a pack from his growing cookie hoard. You left me with an appetite.”

Alistair just shakes his head at her. “It won’t work. It’s a new moon tonight, and you’d have better luck trying to negotiate for his sword instead.”

“We’ll see.” She gives him a fond look. “Don’t go anywhere.”

The air outside is cooler than when they retreated into the tent—or maybe her skin is still radiating heat from the recent activities. Those of the others who are visible appear to be preoccupied with their own activities. If they see her, they do not call her attention. Fine enough. The last thing she wants to do is have to explain herself or her actions to anyone else.

Aeron supposes they will have to, eventually, but it can wait.

She wanders a bit away from camp, digs a small hole in the dirt. It takes thinking of the torrential downpours that seem much more common in the late summer before she gets the desired result. Now if she could only remember which leaves they determined were unfit for contact with skin.

_Never had to worry about that in the alienage. No clean towels on hand? Just tear up your old clothes!_

But there were other worries, weren’t there? Ones that still pose a risk—perhaps even more so now—than using the wrong leaves. Aeron pulls the cork on the vial and downs the bitter contents, praising the detour to Denerim (despite how troublesome it had been to visit that gold digging hound of a “sister”). The aftertaste lingers even after she has buried the empty glass and started back to her ( _their_?) tent. If Alistair kisses her when she returns, will he taste it? And if he tastes it on her tongue, will he ask her about it?

Aeron frowns, arms crossed. _Of course he will._

And he should, and they should definitely talk about it as a matter of responsibility, but…maybe not right now. Perhaps in the morning.

Alistair looks at her from where he lies on the bedroll, trousers back on but nothing else. “You don’t have any cookies with you.”

Aeron shakes her head. “Decided it wasn’t worth the interrogation, although you look genuinely disappointed that I’m empty-handed. Maybe I should go back and ask—”

“No, no, no,” he says, sitting up to take her hand, “you’ve been away long enough. Get back here—”

“Alistair—!”

“—and stay with me, since I do believe that you invited me to before sprinting off.”

“I did not ‘sprint off,’” Aeron tells him, settling beside him on the bedroll. “I had…important things to take care of. The ritual—”

“Oh, the ritual. That’s right.” Alistair smiles at her as he lies back down. “Did it work? I don’t feel any different.”

“No, you were right.”

“I was?” He looks genuinely surprised, as if being right is a foreign concept.

“New moon out. Not good for binding rituals.” The Elf yawns, curls up against him. “You’re safe until the next full moon, I guess.”

“Oh, you guess,” Alistair says, wrapping an arm around her.

“You can never be very certain about these things,” Aeron reminds him, her arm slipping around his waist. “They’re not always so precise.”

“No, I guess not.” He presses a kiss into her hair. “So…what now? Where do we go from here?”

“To sleep, I suppose.” There is a measure of silence. Her fingers trace designs on his stomach. With more seriousness, Aeron says, “I don’t really know, except that wherever it is we need to go, we should be there together.”

“Hm.”

“Does that suit you?” She tilts her head to try and see his expression. “We could always run off once everyone is asleep, too.”

Not that they would. They are bound to this Blight, entrusted to end it—the Joining saw to that—but it also brought them together, so maybe she will thank this Archdemon for before they kill it. This is, at least, something much more tangible to fight for than the fate of the entire world.

“Together then,” he says softly.

Aeron nods. She smiles as she closes her eyes and, for the first time since leaving home, she feels genuinely at ease—maybe even safe.

“Together.”


End file.
